


Forensic File: Coruscant

by EmpireMurderer



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Caped Crusaders, Crime Fighting, Crime Lab Monkeys, Everyone is a Forensic Scientist, F/M, For Science!, Forensics, Murder Mystery, Vigilante Justice, drug war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpireMurderer/pseuds/EmpireMurderer
Summary: Detective Ben Solo follows the clues of a homicide and uncovers a massive drug war rampaging through the streets of the city.  With help from forensic scientist Phasma, the two best friends must use their investigating/science techniques to answer the age old question: How many masked crusaders does it take to eradicate two rivaling drug gangs?Answer: 2With help from:Finn - Crime Scene Unit TechnicianPoe - Firearms ExpertRey - Trace Forensic ScientistRose - Evidence Room TechnicianHux - Rich Guy with Kickass Toys That Literally Kickass





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [AlynnaStrong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlynnaStrong/pseuds/AlynnaStrong) for the beta and initial idea.

10:32 pm

Detective Ben Solo looked down at the dead man curled up in an unnatural pose, eyes opened wide in a pained expression of shock and despair.  Blood seeped out of the circular wound in his head and pooled onto the ground.

“Suicide?”  Finn, the crime scene technician, asked with a suppressed grin.  The young man circled the body, the flash of the camera momentarily highlighted the blood in bright red before fading back into black.

“Just take the pictures,” Ben answered grimly.  Finn chuckled to himself and took some closer shots of the body.

Ben knelt down and surveyed the ground.  Long streaks of spattered blood ran out from the position of the body.  The victim had been shot while lying down, probably looking up at his murderer after being repeatedly knocked into the dirt.  Judging by the disarray of his filthy trench coat, the man had been hassled for something.

Just beyond the treeline, a past-middle aged man in a cheap suit pulled up in his old Ford.  He got out with a heavy cadence and walked over at a leisurely pace to stand next to Ben.  He smelled of stale pretzels and Pepto Bismol.

“I told you to get a haircut,” he said gruffly.

“It’s not past regulation,” Ben answered with a hard edge.  Lieutenant Cafferty barely acknowledged it with a terse throaty huff.  His eyes settled on the body.

“Got a name on the stiff?” he asked indifferently.

“Nope,” Ben replied. “Looks homeless.  Bound to have prints on file.  Don’t you Lieutenants have a free pass at these sorts of things?”

“The wife was giving me shit.  I thought I’d probably find more comfort in a dead man.”

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack, Cafferty.”

“Already got diabetes.  I’d rather die quickly than the hell I’m living now.  Can’t have a goddamned piece of bread without my sugars blowing up,” Lieutenant Cafferty grumbled.

“How about a shot through the head?”

“Too messy.  Who’s working the M.E. tonight?”

“That new guy.  Goes by the name of Mitaka.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Like I said.  He’s new.”

They both watched the crime scene unit technician still taking pictures of the body.  Ben noticed another tech begin drawing up a sketch and detailing out measurements of the area.  He eyed her for a while until he shook his head in irritation.

“Be faster if you didn’t draw leaves on the trees,” he called to her.

“Just want to be accurate,” she replied without looking at him.  He rolled his eyes and surveyed the scene around him.

He was tired of coming into an investigation where the victim was wedged in a cramped, musty room, the stench of death smothering his sinuses as soon as he stepped foot inside so at the very least this victim was fresh and under open air about a hundred feet behind the skeevy motel.  Silver linings.

“Where’s the first responder?” Ben asked Finn.  The young man pointed to a cop manning the scene.  She held a clipboard and was jotting down all the names of any person who crossed the yellow tape.  Ben left Cafferty staring at the corpse as he trotted to the rookie.

“You first on scene?” He asked her as he closed the distance between them.

“Yes, sir,” she answered in a half stance at attention.  Some habits die hard.

“At ease, soldier,” he replied, acknowledging they both had military backgrounds.  Her shoulders slacked in slight embarrassment.  “What’s your name?”

“Officer Hatch.”

“Tell me what happened.”

 

Officer Hatch got a call of shots fired at the motel on the outskirts of the Coruscant city line.  She arrived on scene four minutes later.  There was a small group of people outside the motel who flagged her down on her arrival and spoke in panicked voices as they directed her to the dead body behind the motel.  She called in the body, cleared the scene, got the names of the witnesses, and taped off the area.

“Anyone see anything?”

“No.  Most of them are staying in the motel and were inside when they heard the gunfire.”

“No getaway cars?”

“Someone said they might have heard a truck back that way,” she pointed into the woods behind the motel.  He frowned in the direction she pointed.

The motel itself sat in a run down part of town.  There were two reasons to come down here: whores and crank.  People usually came for both.  And both were practically waving their arms at him, barely locked behind the thin strips of yellow tape.  Onlookers of prostitutes, johns, and drug dealers gathered around the scene like they were watching a movie.  There were too many of them.  Too many cops too.  Too many crime scene techs.  With so many people milling about, evidence was bound to be compromised or destroyed.

“Except for the M.E. investigator, make sure no one else enters the area,” he ordered Hatch.

As if on cue, a large white van bearing the insignia of the county medical examiner’s office rolled into the motel parking lot, and two men hopped out.

“Detective Solo,” the familiar one greeted him.

“Mitaka,” he responded.

“How long do you need till we can clear this body?”

“Not sure.  Probably twenty to thirty minutes?  You don’t by any chance know this area do you?”

“No.  I’m from the north side.  Why?”

“Know what’s in those woods?”

“Nope.  Sorry.”

Ben simply nodded and let the men do their jobs as they pulled out an orange stretcher and a white body bag from the back of their van.  He crossed the scene, making sure not to disrupt any evidence and came across the yellow tape stretched between him and the woods.  Ducking underneath, Ben pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and searched the area for footprints.  The ground was hard and dry and yielded nothing.

He had barely gone a hundred feet when the woods gave way and opened up into a dilapidated park.  It was an overgrown baseball field with a rusty and dangerous looking playground set beside it.  The parking lot was old with tufts of grass bursting out of the cracks.  There were no cars or trucks, not that he expected any to be there.  He went back to the motel.

“Did you get enough pictures of the body?” Ben asked.

“Got all the wide shots, medium shots and close ups,” Finn responded.

“Good.  Canvas the area behind the woods over there,” he told Finn.  “That’s where the shooter fled.”

“On it,” he said as he grabbed his camera and readied his flashlight.

Ben squatted down so that he balanced on his toes, arms resting on his knees as he leaned over the body and took a close look into the gunshot wound.  There was a visible sliver of metal wedged into the skull, deep enough that he couldn’t pry it out without further damaging the body but the slug looked strangely intact.  It gave him hope.

“Who’s doing the autopsy?”  Ben asked Mitaka.

“Dr. Grant Erwin is working tomorrow.  I can text you when it’s scheduled.”

“Yeah.  Do that,” he replied as he stood up. “You can take the body now.”

The M.E. investigator and his tech smoothed out the white body bag on the stretcher alongside the victim.  One grabbed his shoulders while the other took the legs.

“On three,” Mitaka said. “One…two…three.” They pulled the body up and onto the stretcher, stuffing the victims appendages inside the bag.

“Hold on!” Ben quickly ordered.

“What’s wrong?” Mitaka asked.

“He’s wearing two different shoes.”

“He looks homeless. I’m not sure that’s very surprising.”

Ben wasn’t listening. He was already snapping on a pair of rubber gloves he kept in his pocket.  He pulled off the victim’s shoes, and a wad of cash fell out of the left one.  The M.E.’s and the remaining crime scene techs stood frozen as the roll of money tumbled half a foot then settled on the ground.  Ben picked it up and snapped his fingers for an evidence bag.  One was procured for him while he counted out the crisp, clean bills.

“How much is there?” Mitaka asked.

“Five thousand dollars,” Ben replied.  

Mitaka gave a low whistle. “Someone knew he had cash.  Hassled him for it and shot him when he wouldn’t give it up.”

“That’s not what happened,” Ben replied cryptically.  He pocketed the evidence bag after writing his name, date and case number on it.  When it became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, the M.E. investigator shrugged and loaded the body up into the van.

 

 

Processing the scene took all night.  Ben interviewed all the witnesses, but no one had seen anything and no one knew who the victim was.  There had been little in the way of evidence collected.  No fingerprints, no shell casings, and no usable tread marks or footprints.  

It was six in the morning by the time Ben left the motel.  Instead of going home he drove straight to the precinct.  As soon as he was at his desk he grabbed an empty mug out of one of the drawers and headed to the coffee maker.  Caffeine would have to substitute for sleep today.

Ben had barely made it to the coffee maker when he was accosted by a peer.

“Heard you poked some homeless dude last night.”  Detective Arnold snickered while Ben poured coffee into his cup.

Without looking up at him, Ben casually replied.  “Heard you got nailed by vice crimes a few weeks back.”

Ben suddenly felt Arnold grab his jacket and twirl him around to face him, fist raised in the air.  Muscle memory kicked in and Ben ducked to avoid the punch.  His instinct was to strike Arnold in the gut but he held back, knowing he would be suspended if he harmed another detective, even if it was self-defense.  Luckily, the other cops swarmed them, pulling them apart.

“You’re a lying bastard!”  Arnold shouted at him while hands were at his arms, holding him back.

“We all know you were caught with several prostitutes.”  Ben spat.  “Not even eighteen-years-old, I bet.  Heard you broke one of their noses ‘cause you’re a bitch like that.”

Detective Arnold rushed him again but didn’t even get a foot closer to Ben before he was drawn back by four others who were calming him down and turning to leave.

“Don’t worry about Solo.  He’s a self-righteous shit bag,” one replied.

“Yeah, don’t listen to what he says.  He’s just like his goody-goody mama.”

Ben watched them leave, angry that he had to put up with that.  He was well aware that he was the one on the chopping block.  He had to be careful because no one had his back.  He was too principled and that made him dangerous to everyone else around him.

“You look like shit.”  Lieutenant Cafferty complained as Ben drank his entire cup of lukewarm coffee in one gulp.  He hadn’t even heard the man come up beside him.

“Didn’t get any sleep.”  Ben sniffed.  

“Well, I need you to stop getting into fights around here.  I need a detective, not a child.”

“Give me a break.”  Ben huffed, unable to help his outburst.  “Arnold instigated it.  You couldn’t have missed that unless diabetes is already affecting your sight.”

“Hey!  I don’t need your attitude, Solo.  All I’m asking for right now is for you to stop being an asshole, but it’s hard to have confidence in someone who doesn’t play nice and looks and reeks like a wet puppy.  The only reason you’re still here is because you somehow manage to do your job, but even that won’t be enough if you can’t learn to work with us.”

“I don’t want to work with someone who beats up prostitutes for kicks.”  Ben answered loudly, glancing directly across the room at Arnold who scowled and shot him the finger.

“Jesus Christ, everyone’s a sinner.  Don’t go around judging people, especially since you’re no saint yourself.  No one understands your brooding, holier-than-thou attitude.”  Cafferty threatened.

“I don’t claim to be a saint.”  Ben replied through gritted teeth, his voice rising with each word.  “But I’m surrounded by devils who lie and steal and terrorize-…”

“Keep it down!”  Cafferty shushed him.  “Listen, I’m trying to help you but you make it incredibly difficult.  Just focus on your work.”

“I’ll be too busy on my cases to notice how everyone in this office is on the take, huh?”  Ben muttered.

Cafferty glared at him with slight belligerence.  “If it wasn’t for your mother, God rest her soul...” he said as he shook his head in disappointment.  Five years later and people were still holding him hostage to the memory of his mother.  She was as much to blame for his emotional distance and his relentless anger.

“I’d like to leave my mother out of this.”  Ben answered quietly with a suppressed fury.

“She was a good woman.  You were promoted to detective early because you showed signs of being an upstanding officer like your mother.  Chief Organa-Solo would be devastated to know you alienate everyone and no one will have you as a partner.  And she didn’t deserve to die like she did.”

“No one does.”  Ben seethed.  “Especially my mother.”

“Look, everyone is sorry that your parents were murdered, okay?  But we got the sons of bitches and so you should find closure and just _move on _._   _Stop blaming everyone for your loss, do your fucking job, and grow the fuck up.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to forget that my parents are dead but it’s okay because the guys who murdered them are sitting in a prison cell, alive and still celebrating holidays with their families.”  

Cafferty narrowed his eyes at Ben, stewing in anger before turning on his heel to his office.

“Get a haircut!”  He yelled without even glancing back at Ben.

 

Ben sat at his desk and sighed.

He had once been a likable young man with a promising future.  Valedictorian of his high school class, at eighteen he enlisted in the marines and by twenty-two he was made sergeant of an elite force.  Twenty-four saw him at the top of his police cadet class.  He was promoted to detective at twenty-eight.

That was the same year his mother and father were tortured and strangled by misguided gang affiliates looking to cash in on the street cred.  Since her death, the police in the city were unstructured and directionless, giving way to more crime and an upsurge of drug presence.  

The murderers had been caught, but his soul felt shriveled from the loss.  Ben recognized the corruption in the force.  Current Police Chief Daniel Bowers had lost the reins to the city.  Illicit substances percolated through the streets.  Assault and robbery crimes were at an all time high.  There was a brusque rise in unsolved murders of witnesses, journalists, and whistle-blowers.  He felt the city reflected his darkness as it too declined into despair.

Currently, he could feel the eyes upon him in the room.  They were wary of him because he knew they were all dishonest.  He knew, and they knew he knew.

There was Sanderson now, passing him by, probably already high on the coke he had stolen from the evidence room and hidden in his locker.  Patton was showing off pictures of his new car he had bought with the money extorted from all the citizens he roughed up.  Gregory had reportedly bought a house for the mistress his wife didn’t know about with the money the drug gangs gave him to turn a blind eye on his beat.

He was a loner by both choice and circumstance.  He was the boy scout son of the former police chief.

He huffed to himself.  Boy scout.  He was nothing of the sort.  Boy scouts were polite and honorable and liked to help old women across the street.  Ben was much darker than that.  So much darker.

He could feel the anger in him rising, the energy of it bringing him to his feet.  Drawing a sword out from beneath his cloak, he raised it high and swung it around with intense force, slicing through Sanderson, his upper body no longer connected to his bottom half.  He approached Patton as the man shivered in fear, and with one great swing of his blade, sliced off the hand that held his phone, the screen shattering across the floor.  Gregory tried to flee but there was no way to outrun Ben’s rage.  He shoved his sword into Gregory’s chest all the way to the hilt, gravity drawing it out when the body slumped to the floor.  Arnold stood in the corner, pissing himself in fear, and Ben walked menacingly over to him, reaching out his hand and squeezing his fingers into his throat.  Arnold gasped for air, his choked words unable to form as his useless life was slowly melting into the darkness…

“Wake up, Solo!”

Ben lurched as his chair was kicked underneath him, drawing him out of the daze he had been in.  He glared irately at Arnold who passed by while laughing.  For a split second, he wondered whether a suspension would be worth kicking Arnold in the teeth.  A ding from his phone saved him from himself.

The text from Mitaka came in.

 

_Autopsy at 10:00 am_

 

He was thankful for the interruption that turned his focus away from his anger.  He glanced at his watch and noted it was just after seven.  That gave him time to submit the evidence and review the case.  

He glared heatedly at Arnold before heading to the crime lab, skirting the main door and into the side entrance where the evidence room was located.  Ben approached the receiving window and slapped the bag of money down in front of the short woman manning the intake.

“Rose, isn’t it?”  He asked her.

“Yes,” She answered shyly.  He didn’t think she was attracted to him, so she was more likely intimidated.  She typed in the evidence information into the computer and then printed out a receipt.  “Sign here, please.”  He scribbled out a signature and saw her do the same.  Two people on the chain of evidence list.  He could never understand why other techs or police officers felt the need to include so many on the transfer lists.  He knew it annoyed his best friend Phasma to no end.

With the evidence submitted, Ben went back to his desk and looked over his notes until it was time to head over to the medical examiner’s office.

 

 

Ben stood in the corner of the autopsy room wearing a yellow paper apron and blue paper shoe covers.  Finn stood beside him wearing the same.  He had his camera and evidence bags at the ready.  Mitaka was also in attendance though he popped in and out of the room as the exam took place.

The body was rolled in on a gurney and then placed on the cold, metallic table.  Dr. Grant Erwin came in dressed in blue scrubs, full gown, a plastic face shield and rubber gloves.

“Detective Solo,” he greeted.  “Didn’t I see you just last week?”

“That was a month ago,” he answered.  “I guess I’ve been lucky that you’ve managed to attend to most of my cases.”

“He has the most workload on account of cracking all his cases,” Finn added.  Ben glanced over at Finn who was oblivious of his irritation.

“Yes, I’ve heard you have the highest solved cases rate,” Dr. Erwin confirmed.  “Let’s hope this one doesn’t break your record.”

The clothes of the victim were removed and bagged.  An external examination determined the victim was a white male in his early to mid forties.  He had bruising all over his chest and face indicating he had been beaten right before death.  A gunshot wound to the right side of his head, just above the temple seemed the most obvious cause of his demise.

While Dr. Erwin did the preliminary exam, writing down all the visible blunt force trauma to the body, the autopsy assistant drew several tubes of blood from the victim and printed his hands.  She gave one vial of blood to Finn and sent the others to the M.E. toxicology department.  She put the fingerprint card to the side.

“Shouldn’t you go scan and email that to crime records?” Ben asked, but mostly demanded of her.  She flicked her eyes at him and gave him a blank look.

“I have to remain here till the autopsy is done,” she stated.  “Mitaka is the one that sends it to AFIS.”

Ben shifted on his feet, glancing over at the fingerprint card left to the side.  Finn leaned towards him.

“No offense, Detective,” He whispered. “But just have a little patience.”

“Don’t tell me to have patience,” Ben snapped at him in a hoarse whisper before reigning himself in.  He looked to the floor and counted to ten with controlled elaborate breaths.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to Finn.  The young man simply shrugged it off, no doubt having already heard rumors of Ben’s tantrums and not taking it personally.

“Water under the bridge.”

 

Once the body had been thoroughly documented externally both by Dr. Erwin and by Finn’s photographs, it was time to open him up.

Ben and Finn both stepped back when the autopsy tech took up a handheld buzzsaw and the noise of it splintered through the tiled room.  She sliced through the top of the cranium after having already peeled the skin off it a few minutes prior.  She lifted the now detached bone away from the rest of the skull and Dr. Erwin inspected the head trauma with the tip of a pick.

“Circular hematoma approximately two inches in length,” he stated as he searched the trauma.  “A lot of hemorrhaging around the gunshot wound.  To be expected, of course.”  With a pair of tweezers, he dug out the bullet and looked at it in the light.

“Seems you’re in luck,” he said to Ben.  “One side of it is intact.”

“Hopefully it’s in the ballistics database,” Ben replied while Finn took more photos of the brain and then opened up a small evidence bag for the doctor to drop the bullet in.

The doctor continued his internal examination, noting gunshot residue along the temple and inside the wound.  He had been shot at close range.  Further inspection revealed soft tissue trauma of the airway, suggesting someone had attempted to strangle him.

The torso was opened by Y-incision and the doctor informed them that upon first initial look, aside from a swollen liver, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.  One-by-one he pulled out each organ, weighed it, sliced through the tissue, inspected it for abnormalities and then jotted down his findings.

“Well, I’ll send the report to you in a few days,” Dr. Erwin said to Ben at the conclusion of the autopsy.  “Cause of death is certainly brain trauma.  All indications point to him being homeless.  He was dirty, underweight and definitely an alcoholic.  We’ll send the prints to AFIS but if it doesn’t yield a hit then please be kind enough to call us if you should find out his name.”

“Certainly,” Ben replied. “And thank you.”

Mitaka had been present for the last portion of the autopsy and was busily writing down notes for his own investigation.

Before Ben left he pulled the M.E. investigator to the side.

“Can I get a copy of that fingerprint card?”

 

 

Ben entered the lobby of the crime lab and immediately stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air.  He furrowed his brow at the faint but noticeable smell.  It wasn’t strong but it was acrid.

“You coming in?”  He heard a voice to his left say.  He looked over as Poe Dameron passed by him and headed towards the main door to the department labs.

“Yeah.  I was just about to call Phasma,” Ben responded.

“I’ll let you in,” The firearms analyst flashed his ridiculously charismatic smile.  “So long as you promise not to fuck shit up.”

“I promise,” Ben managed a slight lip twitch of a returned smile.  

Poe pressed his badge to the card reader and the door made an audible click.  Ben followed him through the door and into the elevator and Poe had to use his badge against the card reader inside to get the elevator moving to the third floor.

“You could get in trouble for this,” Ben stated.

“Nah,” Poe dismissed with a laugh.  “Security around here sucks.”

“That’s… disconcerting.”

“Right?  Oh, well!” Poe answered almost gleefully.

The elevator arrived on the third floor.  When the doors opened, both men practically stumbled back like they were slapped in the face.  The stench was overwhelming.

“What the hell happened here?” Ben nearly wheezed.

“Did you hear about the major drug bust last week?” Poe asked as they lurched out of the lift and into the hallway.

“Sure.  Narcotics found a marijuana grow house.  It’s reported they harvested about twenty garbage bags of plants.”

“Yeah.  They’re processing it.”

“Processing it?  Why?”

“Can’t make a charge until they know exactly how much weed the culprits intended to distribute.  Can’t do that until the plants have been dried and cured.  All twenty bags are currently drying in the back of the drugs department.”

“How in the hell does it stink so bad?  You’d think Narcotics could pinpoint a grow house just by the smell,” Ben asked as they stood outside of the DNA lab.  Poe rang the doorbell because, as a firearms analyst, he did not have access to this area.

“Sometimes they can.  But usually the distributors have to uphold quality so they can sell it better on the streets.  The drug department just wants to see how much the whole lot weighs after it’s been processed so they’re not nearly as stringent with their methods.  The sloppiness means stinkier atmosphere but at least it takes less time than it would a proper drying stage,” Poe laughed.

The DNA lab was separated by a door with a glass window.  They could see a woman glance around the corner down the hall and then walk towards them while they spoke.  Tall and blonde, she was not the kind of person you would expect to see in a forensic lab.

“That’s pretty brave of you to escort this menacing character through the crime lab,” she said to Poe as she opened the door.

“I like to think you’d do the same for me, Phasma,” Poe grinned.

“I let your girlfriends in all the time.  Hardly any evidence ever goes missing,” Phasma bantered.  Poe laughed and waved as he walked back to the elevators.  The firearms department was on the second floor.  Phasma closed the door behind her and led Ben towards the stairwell.

“We’re not going to the breakroom?” Ben asked.

“We are but not on my floor.  You really think you can eat around that smell?”

They ended up on the first floor where the rancid hay smell wasn’t quite so caustic to their noses.  The breakroom was filled with people, no doubt for the same reason they were there.  They managed to secure a four man table to themselves while most others sat on full benches, talking shop.

“Here,” Ben said as he slid the photocopy of the fingerprint card towards her.  “Run this for me.”

“I didn’t hear a please,” Phasma mumbled through bites of her sandwich.

“ _Please_ ,” he said in a hard tone, immediately regretting it when she shot him a stern look.

“You can’t afford to lose more friends,” she simply said.  He looked away, ashamed.  When he looked back at her, she was casually eating her lunch and holding the card up for a closer look.  She was never one to hold a grudge.

He and Phasma had an instant rapport the moment they met.  It was his first case as a detective in the grand larceny division and her third scene as the CSU tech.  A burglary of a non-residence, in this case a jewelry store, had brought them together.

She was hard working and non-communicative.  The first thing he noticed was how muscular she seemed.  The second was her professionalism.  The third was the deep scar running down her left arm.

Her reliability had solidified her as his favorite among the CSU techs, but it was the fact she didn’t seem intimidated nor to care that he was the son of the police chief that urged him to find out her story.  Once they had sat down and talked, he realized she was just the friend he didn’t know he needed.

Currently she eyed the prints on the card like a jeweler would a diamond.

“What are you looking for?”  He asked.

“Just roughly classifying the prints in my head,” she replied.  “In my mind, I like to see where the prints would be filed.”

“You guys still classify fingerprints?”

“No, of course not,” she set the prints down on the table.  “But there are long rows of old filing cabinets filled with fingerprint cards in the records department.  It’s a nice, quiet place if you want to get away from the AFIS nerds.”

“You were once an AFIS nerd,” he smirked.

“You were once a traffic cop,” she countered.

“That doesn’t count.  You didn’t know me then.”

“Please,” she snickered.  “That’s completely irrelevant.”

A light voice beside them had Phasma whipping her head at the source.

“Is it okay if I sit here?”

Ben had seen her around but had never spoken to her.  Her name was Rey, and she was young, attractive, and worked in the trace section of the crime lab.  Most people work their way into the crime lab, but he had heard she had been hired straight out of college.  Phasma looked up at her like her hair was made of sunshine.

“There doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to sit.”  Rey added after a brief, awkward pause.  Phasma quickly looked to Ben, who was waiting for Phasma to speak since this was her turf and she finally held out a hand to the adjacent seat.

“Sure,” she replied.  “Of course.”

“Thanks!”  Rey beamed as she sat down with her blue Tupperware of steamed vegetables.  “You guys looked deep in conversation.  I hope I didn’t ruin anything.”

“No, not at all,” Phasma assured.  “We were just going over this fingerprint card.”  She picked it up and waved it like Rey needed further proof.

“Oh, right, I’d heard you used to work in the fingerprint department,” Rey recalled.

“You still kind of do, don’t you?”  Ben asked.

“I guess.  I still have access.  Mostly for CODIS reasons.”

“AFIS, CODIS, NIBIN…you guys have too many acronyms,”  Ben shook his head.

“At least we don’t speak in code like all you cops,” Phasma rolled her eyes.  “I’ve got a Ten-Ninety nine in progress.  APB on a six foot, black male wearing blue jeans and a red t-shirt.  Wanted for a BOR.”  She mimicked.

“Your code is awful.  That doesn’t make any sense,” Ben shook his head.

“You get my meaning,” Phasma told him before noticing the interested glance Rey gave Ben.  “Oh, by the way Rey, have you met Ben before?”

“No, never had the pleasure.”

“Rey Walker.  Detective Ben Solo.” Phasma introduced.

“Nice to meet you,” Rey smiled.  Ben nodded solemnly.  Not knowing what to do with that, Rey turned back to Phasma.  “I’m just a civilian so I don’t actually know what your code meant.”

“It meant nothing,” Ben snarked though Phasma could tell he was actually in a better mood than usual.

“It was basically saying there was a robbery in progress.  APB is all points bulletin meaning a message sent to all the police officers to be on the lookout for-…”

“We use BOLO more often,” Ben interrupted.

“Okay, fine, a BOLO, be on the lookout for a perp or missing person.  In this case a person who was wanted for a BOR, or a burglary of a residence.”

“See how that doesn’t make sense?” Ben responded. “Be on the lookout for a guy who burgled a house but is currently robbing a store or bank?”

“Oh my god, Ben, it was just a joke,” Phasma sighed.

“At least I don’t have to make up stuff about your algorithm fingerprint identification system.”

“ _Automated_  fingerprint identification system.”  She eyed him suspiciously.  “How did you get that wrong?  Do you know what CODIS stands for?”

He pursed his lips and looked away.  He was sure he had heard before but there was no way he could pull the answer out of the air.  Phasma correctly read his actions and smirked smugly.

“Combined DNA index system.”

“.……………………… -dex system.”  He mumbled in unison.

“Good work, detective,” Phasma mocked then turned to the woman adjacent to her.  “Any interesting projects lately, Rey?”

“Managed to match strands of dog hair found on the sweater of a suspect to the hair of the dog owned by the victim.  Seems like solid evidence considering the affidavit says the perp never entered the house or touched the dog,” Rey said as she chewed nimbly on her steamed squash.  She turned to Ben. “Just out of curiosity.  NIBIN?”

For the first time in a while, Ben managed to huff out a chuckle.

“National integrated ballistics information network,” he replied on cue.

“You would get that one,” Phasma teased. “You guys get affidavits in trace?  All I get are swabs and then I just run them.  I don’t ever know anything about the case unless I’m subpoenaed.”

“Oh, speaking of which,”  Rey laughed.  “I noticed you had a green envelope in your inbox.”

“What?”  Phasma exclaimed.  “No way!  Are you serious?  That’s the third one this month.”

“Sorry.”

“Guess I better go find out which case it is and look over my notes,” Phasma mused. “God, I hate court.”

While Phasma sulked over her misfortune, Ben glanced over to Rey and was surprised that she was studying him.  Caught, she gave him a shy smile.  He returned one.

 

 

“Well, Rey was right,” Phasma said as Ben trailed her to the mail room. “Not that I doubted her.”

She pulled a light green envelope out of her inbox and tore it open, her eyes lingering on the words of her subpoena.

“Dammit…”  Phasma muttered, mostly talking to herself.  “It’s for when I worked in crime scene.  That was five years ago.  I’m going to have to pull up my report but I can guarantee I’m not going to remember that case.  I’ve got court in three weeks.”

“So, you seem to know Rey pretty well,” Ben said.  Phasma suddenly shot her focus on him.

“Not really.  We both played on the crime lab softball team last season.  Different floors and different departments mean I don’t really see her all that often.  Why?”  She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Just wondering.  She was, you know…nice.”

“Unlike most of the people in your precinct, the scientists in the crime lab tend to be more civil to each other.  So, yes.  She’s nice.”  Phasma replied as she led him to the elevator.

“I guess I don’t know that many crime lab employees to know that.”  Ben shrugged.

“Poe?  Finn?  Rose?  You know them.  You don’t think you would categorize them as nice?”

“Well, sure.  It’s not like I know any of them more than as passing acquaintances though.”

Phasma swiped her card against the reader in the elevator and it lifted them to the fourth floor.  The doors opened up to a hallway.  On one end was the questioned documents and photography departments.  On the other was fingerprints.  She walked them to the fingerprint section and swiped them inside.  It was incredibly quiet in the department, and Ben couldn’t see if anyone might be in the cubicles lining the far wall by the windows.

“Hey, Ahsoka!”  Phasma shouted to the air.  Without waiting for a response, she continued.  “I’m going to use your computer!”

“Okay!”  A faint voice from down the hall shouted back.  Phasma led Ben to the closest cubicle and sat down at the desk.  She typed in her login and password, and then slipped the fingerprint card into the scanner.

The prints showed up on screen, and Phasma altered a few of the arrows at the minutia of the ridges.

“What are you doing?”  Ben asked her.

“Making sure the computer is looking at the core of the print and accurately seeing the ends of the ridges,” she answered.

“Do you usually have to do that?”

“No, but this seems important to you, so I’m making sure it’s accurate for your benefit, all right, Ben?”  Her tone took up a slightly harder edge.

“Ah,” he mumbled.  And after a beat.  “Thanks.”

She ran the prints through AFIS, generating a list of twenty hits.  The algorithm indicated the first hit had the most similar markers, and with hardly a glance at the supplied prints, Phasma declared it a match.

“That’s your guy,” she replied, pulling up the information to the first hit.  “John Greed.  Forty-two years of age.  Got a few raps but the last one was less than three months ago for public intoxication.  Lots of alcohol and trespassing charges.”

“Got a mug shot?”

Phasma clicked into a file.  A few images of a man popped up on screen.

“Is that your homeless man?”  Phasma asked.

“That’s him.” Ben confirmed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets pulled into another murder.

Considering John Greed was homeless, the first priority was to figure out was who might know him.  Ben found the name of the arresting officer who brought Greed in for a public intoxication three months ago.  The officer remembered the man after pulling up the mugshot and directed Ben to the homeless shelter in the same area of the city as the shady motel.

He was headed to the shelter when his caller ID indicated someone from the CSU section of the crime lab was calling him.  That certainly seemed odd.  He wondered if it might be Phasma.

“Detective Solo?”  A familiar male voice said.  “It’s Finn from crime scene.  This is incredibly embarrassing but I was wondering if you might have the bullet from the autopsy this morning?”

“What? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re saying you don’t have the firearms evidence?” Ben asked incredulously.

“I can’t seem to find it.” Finn started to sound panicked.  “I remember putting it in my box but it’s not there anymore.  I thought perhaps you might have decided to submit it yourself?”

Ben distinctly remembered seeing Finn secure the evidence into his kit that morning.

“Of course not. You know I wouldn’t go through your things especially without you knowing.  You looked through the entire box?”

“I dumped the whole thing out.  It’s not there.”

There was no way it fell out. It was secured inside the box. Ben had seen it himself. Feeling a welling up of anger, Ben had the sense to turn into a parking spot to resume his conversation.

“Could someone have taken it?”

“Maybe?  But I don’t know who would.  Or why.”

“Did you ever leave your kit anywhere you couldn’t see it?”

The following pause did not incite confidence. It propelled Ben further into fury that Finn’s sloppiness may have jeopardized his case.

“I left it in the M.E.’s office while I went to visit a friend in the toxicology section of their lab.  Rose and I went to lunch and I had it sitting in my truck for about an hour,” he replied with chagrin.

“Aren’t you supposed to hand it in as soon as you can?”

“There’s nothing in the SOP’s about that.  And even if there was, sometimes I’ll go from one scene to another so I hardly have time to go back to the crime lab just to submit evidence from the first scene and th-…”

“Okay. I get it.” Ben cut him off. “Just keep looking.”

“I don’t know where else to l-…”

“ _Just keep looking _,__ ” Ben stressed. There was a pause before there was an answer.

“You got it, detective,” Finn signed off.

Ben stared at the dash of his car for several silent seconds until his anger overwhelmed him.  He grit his teeth and punched his fist into the dash with three hard hits. He grimaced in pain and shame at the loss of control. At least he hadn’t broken anything this time. He shook out his hand and counted to ten then started up his car and drove away.

 

 

By showing one of the employees at the homeless shelter a mugshot of the victim, Ben was directed to a bar called O’Hannigan’s two blocks away. He entered the establishment expecting a dive but it turned out to be a clean looking joint with a lot of pool tables, dart boards and even a spot for karaoke.

“What can I do for you?” a red-haired woman behind the bar called to him. She held up an empty shot glass and waved him over. “You look like a whiskey connoisseur.”

Ben sidled up to the bar, simultaneously reaching into his jacket and pulling out his badge.

“The name’s Detective Ben Solo. As much as I’d like to indulge, I’m here on official business.”

She cocked her head curiously.

“What kind of business?”

“I was told this man came in here fairly frequently,” Ben said as he slid the mugshot across the bar to her. She picked it up and immediately clucked her tongue at the picture.

“That would be John,” she answered, sliding the picture back to him. “What’s he done this time? I promise you he’s not a bad guy, just has one too many on occasion.”

“He’s dead.”

The woman stared blankly at him for a full three seconds.

“Who did you say you were?” she inquired again.

“Detective Ben Solo. I work homicide in the Coruscant police department,” he stated.  “And you are?”

“Maureen O’Hannigan. I own the bar,” she answered though her demeanor was entirely changed from the woman who had tried to sell him liquor. “What happened to John?”

“Murdered last night. Shot in the temple.”

“Are you serious? Is this some sick joke? Who killed him? Why?” The string of questions sailed out of her mouth hardly allowing him time to reply.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“I can’t believe it…” Maureen murmured to herself. “Why would anyone kill John?”

“Did you know John well?”

It took her a second to come out of her stupor to realize he had asked her a question.

“No, not really. I mean, kind of, but John was not a pleasant man to be around. I didn’t mind that he was a bit of an ass, which is why he became one of my regulars, but he could be pretty argumentative. Liked his alcohol but alcohol didn’t like him much, know what I mean?”

“He sounds like a man who might have made a few enemies.”

“I wouldn’t really say he had any enemies. He wasn’t well liked but I really can’t think of anyone who would go to lengths to kill him.”

“Is there anyone that would know? Did he have any family or friends I could talk to?”

“I don’t think so. He told me he didn’t have a family and I’ve never seen him hanging out with anyone. Maybe the homeless shelter up the street could tell you.”

“They told me to come here.”

“Oh, well then I’m sorry but I can’t help you there.”

“What can you tell me about John?”

“Other than he was homeless and a drunk? Not a whole lot. He came in here about two or three times a week. Usually around the same time of day. Lunchtime. Stayed a few hours. Usually I’d have to tell him to leave if he got too ornery. He always came back though. I served him because he looked like the world had kicked him down since he was a child. If he wants to die by cirrhosis then that’s his choice. Never thought someone would kill him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Was only yesterday afternoon. He came in around one. Left around three thirty.”

“Was he drunk at the time?”

“He didn’t have enough money for that. He was maybe half-drunk.”

“Where did he get the money to buy alcohol?”

“I hear he panhandles over by the interstate and First Street. Never seen him there, though.”

“He hasn’t been in any bar fights here? Maybe pissed off one of your patrons?”

“I would never let it get that far. I’ve usually got him out the door once he starts showing a hint of belligerence.”

“Where does he go when he’s not here?”

“I don’t really know. My guess is the homeless shelter or panhandling. Sometimes he’ll disappear for about a week and I’ll come to find out he’s been in jail but other than that, I haven’t got a clue what he does outside this bar.”

With his questions exhausted, Ben rapped his knuckles twice on the bar and nodded.

“All right. Thanks for your time,” he said to her.

“Good luck, Detective,” she called out. He turned to leave and then remembered something, snapping his fingers and whipping around to face her.

“Oh! By the way,” he said, gaining her attention again. “John had in his possession five thousand dollars when he was found. Would you know anything about that?”

Maureen’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline as she stood muted in place. When she could speak it sounded shaky and unsure.

“Five thousand dollars? On John? I don’t have any idea how he got that,” she stammered. “Was it in his coat?”

Ben thought that was an odd question.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

She hesitated and he could see he caught her off guard.

“Just wondering,” she answered.

Ben eyed her narrowly but didn’t press the issue further, figuring he wouldn’t get anything out of it. He turned and left the bar.

 

 

As soon as Ben got back to police headquarters, he went straight to the evidence lab.

“Did you find it?” he demanded of Finn who had laid out everything from his crime scene kit and was thoroughly going through each item.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Finn practically shouted in panic. “I can’t find it! I have no idea where it could have disappeared.”

“You’ve looked everywhere?” Ben tried to stifle his rising anger.

“I just don’t understand where it could have gone…” Finn mused with his fingers tapping his chin. “I mean, I’ve looked everywhere. _Everywhere._ ”

Ben stared hard at him, trying not to let his rage overtake him. Finn wouldn’t look him in the eye, too frightened of what he would see there. In the end, Ben simply stormed off, hands fisted in indignation.

 

 

Ben first went to the crime lab director, Sam Medina. He told Ben that Finn had been a stellar employee for the past two years and would be reprimanded but not fired. Ben took issue with the fact that there was nothing that could be done about missing evidence. Sam Medina said it happened so rarely that he had no intention of setting a deterrence protocol in place. Ben felt the Standard Operating Procedures should start dictating that evidence immediately be submitted after collection. The director disagreed and told him to take it up with his Lieutenant.

Ben went to Cafferty to file a grievance but the Lieutenant didn’t think this was worth filing over considering the crime lab was not part of his department and there was no reason to stir up animosity between the police and the lab.

“You can file with the city but neither I nor the crime lab director will support any follow up,” Cafferty announced while Ben stewed in his office. “Besides, your homeless guy was probably killed by some other guy with a stolen gun. Even if you did get a hit in NIBIN, there’s no telling if the gun still belonged to the owner. With all the crimes committed in the city, this one is a waste of your time. Honestly, if you dropped this case, no one would blame you.”

Ben slammed the door on the way out.

 

 

Ben wanted to punch a wall. Cafferty was losing his mind. To suggest dropping the case was beyond irresponsible. It was disrespectful to John Greed at best. He was so outraged he nearly ran out of the precinct.

He found himself in his car, breathing hard, his hands clenching the steering wheel with white-knuckled force. In the privacy of his car, he screamed out obscenities until his throat was raw.

As soon as he calmed down, he started up the engine and drove out of the lot. Instead of going home he made a phone call. It rang long enough that Ben feared it would go to voicemail but was relieved when there was an answer.

“Hey, I’m still at work.  What do you need?”

“To fight.”  Ben replied gruffly.

“Now?  I just told you I’m still at work.”

“Do you wanna fight or not?”

There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, fine.  I’ll meet you there in twenty.”

 

 

“...And then he told me to drop the case!”

Ben held the sword tight in his fist and swung it with a good amount of effort. The wooden blade made contact with the wooden staff of his opponent, knocking it out of Ben’s hands and sailing it half way across the gymnasium before plummeting into the exercise mat with a soft thud. It took only a well-placed strike from his opponent into the temple of his head guard to send Ben falling to his hands and knees.

“Dammit, Phasma, that was unnecessary,” he spat after a long, painful sigh pulled out of his throat. His opponent carried the staff to the wooden score counter, sliding the bead across the bar with the end of the weapon. 8 - 5.

“You could have dodged,” she said as she pulled off her head gear. “Why would Cafferty tell you to drop the case?

“Okay, he didn’t tell me to drop it but he seemed to encourage it.”

“Seems off,” she responded, scratching her chin with the end of her staff.

“You think? The guy is an incompetent asshole. No wonder our unsolved case rate is so high.”

“Maybe it’s not incompetence,” she replied, putting her head gear back on and then prodding the butt of her staff into his ribs. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“What do you mean?” he asked as he pulled himself together. He retrieved his sword and readied into a stance.

“Evidence goes missing and then you’re told the case isn’t important enough to waste your time on? Sounds fishy.”

Phasma made the first move and he deftly blocked the strike then swept her leg out from under her. She plummeted to the mat and he knocked the bo staff out of her hand and brandished his wooden blade at her throat.

“I thought you were tired or something,” she said as she pulled herself back up. Ben went to the score counter and slid the bead with his sword. 8 - 6.

“Second wind,” he countered. “You think there’s something going on?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I doubt it but it still seems weird.”

“You two again?” A man’s voice rang out as he stepped into view from the stairway. Wearing an expensive three piece suit, he exuded class with a mix of pretentiousness. Tall and debonair, he was the type of man who would be appalled to leave the house without an immaculately trimmed haircut. “I thought I told you not to enter my house without my knowledge.”

“We didn’t want to wait for you to get home from work,” Phasma retorted without concern for his hard tone. “Besides, Hux, why give me the key if you didn’t want intruders?” She picked up her staff and trained her focus on Ben who was already at the ready.

Hux held his hands behind his back with an unreadable expression.

“At least someone is making use of this gym, I guess,” he finally relented.

“Damn, right!” Ben uttered as he continued to deflect Phasma’s strikes. “If it wasn’t for us…this gym…would never be used.”

Hux watched the two spar for the next two minutes until Phasma hooked her staff across Ben’s shin and pulled him off guard. He lost his balance and she jabbed her staff at his stomach but he managed to catch it and pull her forward. She was too stubborn to let go and she stumbled forward, giving him the chance to clothesline her at her throat. She dropped to the mat in a hard fall on her back.

Phasma groaned while Ben went to the score counter. 8 - 7.

“Good show, Ben,” Hux congratulated in his subdued manner. “I have a charity function to prepare for. If I’m gone, be sure to lock up when you’re done.”

“Later, Hux,” Ben said as he gripped Phasma’s hand and pulled her up.

“Bring a present back for me,” Phasma told Hux while he walked back up the stairs.

“If you don’t show more aptitude with that bo staff perhaps I’ll gift you a suit of armor,” Hux crassed before disappearing further inside his house.

“I’m the one that’s winning,” Phasma mumbled in annoyance.

“You wouldn’t be if I had gotten any sleep in the last thirty hours,” Ben taunted as he circled her with nimble feet and raised sword. Phasma eyed him speculatively until he moved half a step forward and she surprised him with a quick strike with the staff she held casually to her side. It was hardly a direct hit but he hadn’t been expecting it and he flinched back, over-correcting his step and stumbling over his own legs until he was sprawled out on the mat behind him.

“That doesn’t count,” he said as he sat up with a hint of red tinging his cheeks.

“The hell it doesn’t,” she responded as she slid the counter bead across the bar with her staff. 9 - 7.

 

 

Two days later Ben found himself at another murder scene. Inside a moderately expensive house in a nice part of town, a man lay face down in a pool of blood.

“Suicide?” Ben heard Finn say to his fellow crime scene unit technician.

“Wasn’t funny the first eight times,” she declared as she continued to document the scene with her camera. Ben cleared his throat and Finn looked in his direction, immediately putting his head down and resuming his sketch of the crime scene.

They were in the living room of a large house of a seemingly well-to-do family. There were splotches of blood everywhere. Ben had a strong hunch not all of it was the victim’s.

“Who is he?” Ben asked the officer in charge.

“Donald Knuth. 48-years-old. Works middle management of Coruscant Chemical Supply.”

A buzz in Ben’s pocket alerted him to an incoming phone call. The caller ID indicated it was Lieutenant Cafferty, and he promptly hit the decline button.

“You got a report of the events so far?” Ben inquired of the officer.

 

A little after five in the evening, a neighbor saw Knuth and another man pull up to the house, arguing loudly enough to stir the neighbor out of his chair and away from his television. From the window, the neighbor noticed Knuth and the unidentified man go into the house. The neighbor went back to his television show until he heard shots fired from Knuth’s house not even two minutes later. He looked out the window and noticed the unidentified man run out the front door and get into Knuth’s car and speed away. A different unidentified man dressed entirely in black peeked out the front door before closing it. As far as the neighbor knew, the man in black never came out.

The police arrived less than four minutes later.

The man arguing with Donald Knuth was a caucasian male, about six feet tall, lean build with brown hair and fair skin. Due to his posturing when he ran out, he may have been wounded.

The neighbor was unable to make any descriptors for the man in black other than he had a muscular build.

 

Ben jotted down his notes then sent out an APB on the victim’s car and a description of the man driving it. He then approached the edge of the room near the front door, stepping lightly so that no evidence could be disturbed. Surveying the room he pictured the scenario of two men arriving to the house in heated conversation loud enough to be heard across the street. They then entered the house where someone waited to kill Knuth, catching them off guard. Knuth was immediately gunned down but his acquaintance managed to escape.

The first question that came to his mind was why did someone want to kill Donald Knuth?

The second was where was his acquaintance, and why hadn’t he called the police himself?

His phone buzzed again and Ben declined the incoming call from Cafferty. This time the Lieutenant left a voicemail.

“Ben, you better not be avoiding my call,” Cafferty’s voice echoed through. “Sanderson is on his way there. I’m giving the investigation to him. He can take it from here.”

Ben cursed and shoved his phone back in his pocket. The thought that Phasma might be right about a cover up now seemed more possible. Maybe it was simply a personal vendetta but he felt the need to ensure nothing more insidious was going on. Pulling out a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, Ben snapped them on.

“Finn,” Ben came up to the CSU tech. The young man glanced up at him with wide eyes. “Give me a few buccal swabs and a few evidence bags.”

“Uh…yeah, sure. Sure,” Finn reached into his kit and pulled out three long sticks with cotton swabs on the ends and passed them over along with two small sized, clear ziplock bags and two medium sized, clear ziplock bags.

Ben went to the body and swabbed a buccal across the pool of blood surrounding the dead man.  He then slipped a plastic container over it and snapped the stick off so that only an inch of the tip remained and the container could be sealed.

Glancing quickly around the room, he found a patch of blood near the front door that was unlikely to have come from the victim. He used another buccal swab to collect the blood and sealed it tight.

“Hey, rookie!”

That kind of shouting only meant one thing. A prank. Normally Ben would not condone such irresponsible practices at a crime scene but tonight he was actually thankful for it. It meant no one was paying attention to him.

One of the cops had yelled it to a young officer whose face was tinged in green. His uniform was so new the blues weren’t faded and he stood over in a corner near a large fake tree, ready to hurl in it if necessary.

“Go get the chalk!”

Immediately the rookie nodded his head and rushed out of the room.  The other cops burst out laughing.

“He’s going to go get chalk!” one of them snickered. “That dumb sonofabitch is actually gonna go look for chalk!”

While the cops made fun of the new recruit, Ben casually searched the area. There was no way he would be able to lift any prints without being noticed. He wondered if he could grab the drinking glass off the table without anyone seeing but decided he didn’t want to risk it. He did notice a white powdery substance on the rim of the bar counter, specks of it had drifted down to the floor.

Ben looked to the cops but they were all staring out the door, waiting for the rookie to reappear. With a quick surreptitious swipe of his gloved hand, Ben brushed the powder into one of the small evidence bags. He stashed it in his pocket along with the blood swabs.

The rookie came trotting back into the house.

“I couldn’t find the chalk,” he stammered, unable to hide his shame.

“Chalk?” the older officer questioned. “Why would we need chalk?” The rookie glanced curiously at him, finally understanding he was being set up for something but not knowing how far he had walked into it.

“To…chalk the body?” he asked. The senior policemen all roared in unison while the rookie stood by not knowing what it was that was so funny.

“You dumbass!” one mocked. “You really think chalking bodies is a good idea? You try making a silhouette around a corpse surrounded in blood.”

“Yeah! Way to contaminate the scene, idiot!” another taunted.

“Didn’t they teach you anything in the academy, retard?”

“That’s enough!” Ben shouted loud enough that it became dead silent in the room. “Get your heads out of your asses and get back to work. Actually, you stay outside and keep tabs on who enters and exits the scene,” he pointed to the rookie, “and you go out back and secure the premises,” he indicated to the only female cop. “Look for evidence of someone escaping out the back. The rest of you need to fuck off.”

“But I’m the first responder,” the policeman who had instigated the prank sneered. “Shouldn’t I be the one to document who comes and goe-…”

“I said, _fuck off_!” Ben shouted. The five other cops slowly filtered out of the house with grimacing expressions.

“...-thinks because his police chief mama got killed he can be a dick…” Ben heard one grumble out the door. As soon as they were gone, Cafferty came bolting in followed by Sanderson. Ben rolled his eyes and huffed out exasperatedly. Time was up.

“Solo! You’re out!” Cafferty thumbed back to the front door.

“This is my investigation. The precinct called me in,” Ben began.

“And I’m saying you’re out,” Cafferty replied through rising anger. “You’ve got more than enough ongoing cases right now.”

“That’s never stopped you from assigning them to me before.”

“Well, it’s stopping me now, so unless you want me to split _all_ your cases to the rest of the detectives, you need to get your shit and leave.”

Ben stared down the Lieutenant in a raging glare before slowly turning to the door.

“Have a nice night, Solo,” Sanderson jeered. Ben clenched his fist hard enough that the rubber glove snapped open across his knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are welcomed. Thanks to anyone who read this so far!


End file.
